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THE  SIX  WHO  WERE  HANGED 

(By  CLEM.  G.  HEARSEY) 


I 


This  book  contains  a  graphic  pictorial  and 
narrative  description  of  the  history-making  execu¬ 
tion  at  Amite,  La.,  May  9,  1924,  when  six  men 
paid  the  extreme  penalty  on  the  gallows  for  the 
murder  of  one.  The  three  scenes  of  the  actual 
execution  contained  in  this  book  are  among  the 
most  unusual  photographs  in  the  world. 


The  author  has  no  apology  to  offer  for  this 
book;  it  is  the  unfolding  of  a  story  whose  “light¬ 
est  word  should  harrow  up  the  soul  and  freeze 
the  blood”. 

It  is  an  impartial  narrative,  but  it  bitterly 
arraigns  Society  as  a  Monster  of  Cruelty,  and 
points  to  the  conclusion  that  Death  by  Hanging, 
as  judicial  punishment,  has  no  part  with  civiliza¬ 
tion. 

Society  must  be  protected  from  its  undesir¬ 
able  units,  yes,  but  Society  has  passed  the  Savage 
State,  and  in  the  application  of  its  system  of  Crim¬ 
inal  Correction,  it  should  not  exercise  the  Spirit 
of  Vengeance. 

If  Capital  Punishment  must  stand,  let  us 
have,  not  “Lex  Talionis” — the  Law  of  Retaliation 
— but  a  humane  infliction  of  the  Death  Penalty. 

- 

— 

JBV  1 

■ 

Ij 

' 


Copyright,  1924 
By 

Clem.  G.  Hearsey 


THE  SIX  WHO  WERE  HANGED 

By  Clem.  G.  Hearsey 

The  Gallows  Tree  ripened  to  its  grim  harvest  in  the 
palisaded  inclosure  of  the  jail  at  Amite,  La.,  on  a  Friday, 
the  Ninth  of  May,  and  the  fruit  for  the  Feast  of  Death 
numbered  six. 

In  three  creaking,  crashing  stanzas,  the  scaffold  sang 
its  Hymn  of  Doom,  and  each  period  carried  with  it,  the 
ghastly  snapping  of  neck  bones,  and  the  straining  and 
stretching  of  bound  and  hood-winked  bodies  as  they  swayed 
at  the  rope’s  end. 

Six  died  for  one,  and  the  agony  of  the  six,  carrying 
through  three  years  of  imprisonment,  was  perhaps  greater 
atonement  than  even  the  sternest  System  of  Law  might 
have  required,  could  that  agony  have  been  placed  in  the 
Scale  of  Justice  and  weighed  against  the  enormity  of  the 
crime  for  which  the  courts  demanded  payment. 

The  agony  of  three  years,  even  before  its  grim  climax 
of  the  quivering  trap  doors  had  been  reached,  was  terrific, 
sombre  with  the  touch  of  the  heaviest  tragedy,  and  the  hap¬ 
less  six,  buffeted  by  the  mailed  fist  of  Fate,  lived  in  tor¬ 
ment,  between  hope  and  dread. 

Even  in  the  gloom  of  first  imprisonment,  and  long  be¬ 
fore  the  gaunt  skeleton  in  wood,  which  was  finally  to  grip 
them  in  its  throttling  embrace  of  death,  had  cast  its  shadow 
across '  their  hopes,  theirs  was  the  conviction  that  they 
would  escape  the  Law,  and  that  any  penalty  paid  by  them, 
would  be  but  a  partial  penalty — a  term  of  years  in  the  peni¬ 
tentiary  at  the  most. 

These  six  men,  Natale  Deamore,  Rosario  Leona,  Joseph 
Bocchio,  Andreas  Lamantia,  Joseph  Giglio  and  Joseph 
Rini — they  are  named  in  the  order  in  which  they  were 
groomed  by  the  Deathsman — relied  upon  their  friends,  the 
strong  and  influential  forces  behind  them,  to  save  them 
from  the  law,  and  late  in  the  evening  before  their  execution, 
and  just  as  the  bugler  down  in  the  court  house  square 
sounded  “taps”,  Rini  and  Giglio,  their  fingers  gripping  the 
bars  of  their  cells,  told  newspaper  men  and  sheriffs,  who 

1 


had  come  to  bid  them  good-night,  that  they  did  not  be¬ 
lieve  that  they  were  to  die  on  the  morrow,  and  felt  confident 
of  being  saved  before  the  hangman  reached  them. 

They  were  the  six  who  died  for  one — Deamore,  Leona, 
Bocchio,  Lamantia,  Giglio  and  Rini,  and  the  one  who  died 
at  the  hands  of  the  six,  or  so  the  law  declared,  was  Dallas 
Calmes,  peaceful  restaurateur,  and  hotel-keeper  of  the 
little  town  of  Independence,  La. 

The  story  is  best  told  in  its  slow  and  sensational  un¬ 
folding,  from  the  morning  of  May  8,  1921,  when  the  murder 
was  done,  to  the  afternoon  of  May  9,  1924,  when  Justice, 
as  man  writes  it,  was  satisfied  with  the  scaffold  offering. 

It  was  in  the  quiet  little  village  of  Independence,  nestl¬ 
ing  sleepily  on  the  first  slope  from  the  lake  marsh,  that 
Crime ;  paying  its  heavy  toll  to  death,  stalked  to  the  thrill¬ 
ing  accompaniment  of  a  woman’s  shrill  screams,  the  sharp 
staccato  of  revolver  shots,  and  the  gasping  groans  of  a 
desperately  wounded  man. 

Dallas  Calmes,  the  village  inn-keeper,  or  restaurant 
proprietor,  was  the  victim  of  the  storm  of  bullets;  his 
shrieking  distracted  wife  crouched  on  the  ground  beside 
him,  holding  the  bloody  head  on  her  lap,  and  slinking  away 
in  the  darkness  of  the  early  morning  to  the  chugging  auto¬ 
mobile  where  Joe  Bocchio  and  Joe  Giglio  awaited  them  were 
Roy  Leona,  Joe  Rini,  Natale  Deamore  and  Andreas  La¬ 
mantia. 

Murder  was  committed  there  in  the  blackness  of  that 
May  morning — Calmes  gasped  out  his  life  in  his  wife’s 
arms — and  on  another  May  day,  three  years  after,  as  a 
sequel  to  that  tragedy  of  unerring  pistol  fire,  there  was 
another  and  more  hideous  revel  of  Death  and  Pain  when 
the  six  men — Bocchio,  Giglio,  Leona,  Rini,  Deamore  and 
Lamantia  were  groomed  by  the  hangman  and  swung  from 
the  tall  gibbet. 

The  murder  and  the  execution  of  the  slayers  make  up 
one  of  the  most  startling  pages  of  criminal  history  of  the 
past  decade.  It  was  crime  which  aroused  the  indignation 
of  a  country  parish  known  for  its  turbulence  in  former 
years;  there  was  ever  the  threat  of  night  riders  storming 
the  prison  and  taking  the  culprits  out  to  the  forest  as  gal¬ 
lows’  tree  fruit,  and  leading  men  of  the  district  had  to 
exert  all  their  eloquence  to  calm  the  fury  of  the  people. 

That  was  while  the  men  were  in  jail  in  the  little  town 
of  Amite,  the  county  seat  of  Tangipahoa  Parish,  sixty  miles 

2 


from  New  Orleans,  undergoing  their  two  trials.  The  long 
term  of  their  confinement  was  in  the  massive,  steel-lined 
Parish  Prison  in  New  Orleans,  where  they  were  held  under 
the  watchful  care  of  Captain  Archie  Rennyson,  the  prison 
governor,  for  safe  keeping. 

It  was  during  the  last  days  of  their  captivity  that  the 
case  of  the  six  who  were  hanged  assumed  something  of  an 
international  aspect.  Every  legal  means  had  been  ex¬ 
hausted  ;  the  courts  from  the  District  Court  of  Tangipahoa 
to  the  United  States  Supreme  Court  had  sealed  the  men’s 
warrant  to  the  gallows ;  Governor  Parker,  although  threat¬ 
ened  by  Blackhand  letters,  genuine  or  spurious  had  an¬ 
nounced  that  no  clemency  would  be  shown  the  murderers, 
and  the  majority  of  the  members  of  the  Board  of  Pardons 
had  made  clear  that  their  ears  were  deaf  to  pleas  of  mercy. 

It  was  then  that  the  Chancellor  of  the  Italian  Con¬ 
sulate  in  New  Orleans,  Cavallero  Papini,  bore  to  Governor 
Parker  at  Baton  Rouge,  the  State  Capital,  a  letter  from 
Prince  G.  Gaetani,  the  Italian  Ambassador  at  Washington. 
His  Excellency,  the  Ambassador,  wrote  unofficially,  but  he 
politely  advanced  a  request  that  the  six  men  might  be 
spared  the  gallows  and  sent  to  prison  for  life  terms.  He 
urged  that  Italy  had  long  since  abandoned  capital  punish¬ 
ment  as  having  no  part  with  civilization,  and  he  thought 
that  a  commutation  of  the  sentence  might  serve  to  further 
promote  the  good  feeling  so  long  existing  between  the  an¬ 
cient  kingdom  of  southern  Europe  and  the  great  republic 
of  the  West.  While  Governor  Parker  refused  to  comment 
on  the  Ambassador’s  letter,  the  appeal  from  the  ambassa¬ 
dorial  source  did  not  move  him  from  the  course  of  High 
Justice  as  he  saw  it,  and  work  proceeded  on  the  gallows 
building  in  the  jail  yard  at  Amite. 

The  crime  for  which  the  six  men  were  required  to  pay 
the  law’s  heaviest  penalty  is  a  picture  of  banditry,  set  in 
a  frame  of  murder.  Tangipahoa  Parish  is  the  great  center 
for  the  strawberry  culture  of  the  Delta  country,  and  in  In¬ 
dependence  is  the  Farmers’  &  Merchants’  Bank,  where 
the  owners  of  the  rich  fruit  acres  and  the  berry  pickers 
deposit  their  money  after  the  season’s  successful  work. 

As  the  story  in  its  bloody  course  runs,  the  six  Italians, 
meeting  in  New  Orleans,  plotted  to  rob  the  bank  in  Inde¬ 
pendence. 

Roy  Leona  and  Joe  Giglio  came  to  the  great  southern 


3 


city  from  Chicago,  at  the  end  of  April,  1921.  They  came 
with  the  intention  of  “bootlegging”,  making  wine  and 
whiskey  for  the  thirsty  trade,  selling  it  at  a  high  figure  and 
amassing  a  great  fortune,  as  others  before  them  had  done. 
Vito  de  Gorgio,  a  brigand  at  heart,  first  devised  the  scheme 


Joseph  Giglio 

of  the  bank  robbery,  de  Gorgio  was  no  participant  in  the 
raid,  but  remained  in  New  Orleans,  and  later  going  to  Chi¬ 
cago  was  killed  in  a  brawl.  “It  would  be  easy  work,”  said 
de  Gorgio;  “all  you  need  is  nerve,  and  you  can  make  a  get¬ 
away  with  a  lot  of  money.” 

Leona,  who  was  something  of  a  ring  leader  in  the 
affair,  as  his  confession  indicates,  interested  Lamantia  and 
Rini,  New  York  Italians  not  long  in  New  Orleans,  in  the 
venture,  and  Deamore,  once  a  knife  sharpener  but  later 
interested  in  an  automobile  repair  shop,  was  pressed  into 
service,  as  he  knew  roads  for  automobiles  from  New  Or¬ 
leans  to  Independence,  and  in  and  out  the  swamps  and 
forests.  Bocchio  had  just  come  in  from  Chicago  with  $300 
in  his  pocket  intending  to  return  to  Italy  to  see  his  mother, 
and  as  he  was  an  automobile  mechanic  and  chauffeur  he 
was  requested  to  drive  the  little  Hudson  car. 

The  six  bandits  left  New  Orleans  in  their  car  on  a 
Friday  afternoon,  and  made  a  difficult  run,  because  of 
engine  troubles.  They  spent  Friday  night  with  a  country¬ 
man  of  theirs,  named  Giamalva,  way  up  on  the  river  road, 
and  the  next  afternoon.  May  7th,  they  started  on  the  last 
lap  of  their  dangerous  journey  in  their  uncertain  machine. 


4 


Late  at  night  they  stopped  in  the  thick  woods  near  Inde¬ 
pendence,  and  waited  for  the  dark  of  the  morning  for  their 
work.  The  automobile  resumed  its  journey  and  was  parked 
several  blocks  from  the  bank  and  the  robbers  went  to 
their  work. 

Next  to  the  bank  was  Calmes’  little  restaurant,  and 
the  yards  of  the  two  places  were  as  one.  The  robbers,  in 
getting  through  a  fence,  overturned  some  boards,  and  Mrs. 
Calmes  was  aroused  from  sleep.  She  awakened  her  hus¬ 
band,  and  Calmes,  with  his  revolver  in  hand  went  to  the 
back  door,  threw  it  open,  entered  the  yard,  saw  the  dark 
forms  of  several  men  and  cried  “Halt  there !”  The  answer 
to  his  command  was  a  hail  of  bullets,  and  as  Calmes  fell 
mortally  wounded  he  returned  the  fire. 

The  men  escaped  in  the  blackness  of  early  morning, 
and  Mrs.  Calmes  supporting  her  dying  husband  in  her 
arms  screamed  for  help.  The  chase  was  taken  up  at  once 
by  Sheriff  Lem  Bowden,  the  man  with  the  steel  blue  eyes 
and  desperate  courage,  and  in  less  than  twenty-four  hours, 
the  six  were  in  prison.  They  made  their  first  break  for  liber¬ 
ty  in  the  automobile,  but  when  the  pursuit  was  hot  they 


Joseph  Rini 

abandoned  the  machine  in  the  swamps  and  separated.  Three 
were  taken  together,  after  exchanging  shots  that  had  no 
effect  with  the  sheriff’s  posse,  and  the  others  were  arrested 
individually  late  on  the  day  following  the  killing,  in  adja¬ 
cent  villages.  They  had  with  them  sawed-off  shot  guns,  re¬ 
volvers  and  dynamite.  Bloodhounds,  common  in  Louisiana 


% 


5 


in  man  hunts,  played  a  successful  part  in  running  down  the 
culprits. 

As  a  bloody  connection  with  the  crime  in  Tangipahoa, 
a  connection  the  police  recognized  but  could  not  establish, 
two  Italians  were  found  shot  to  death  in  an  automobile  near 
the  Industrial  Ship  Canal  in  New  Orleans. 

The  prisoners  were  taken  to  New  Orleans  as  the  author¬ 
ities  of  Tangipahoa  wanted  the  law  to  take  its  course  and 
feared  the  Vengeance  of  Night  Riders,  were  the  men  de¬ 
tained  for  any  great  length  of  time  in  the  weak  Amite  jail. 
They  had  two  trials,  appeals  to  the  State  Supreme  Court, 
the  United  States  Supreme  Court  and  hearing  before  the 
Pardon  Board,  but  the  demands  of  Justice  pointing  toward 
the  gallows  were  maintained. 

The  execution  was  set  for  three  years  and  one  day 
after  the  killing  of  Calmes. 

It  was  a  long,  hard  siege  for  Capt.  Rennyson,  the  Pris¬ 
on  Governor,  and  his  deputies — the  stay  of  the  condemned 
men  in  the  Parish  Prison  at  New  Orleans — and  the  last 
fortnight  of  that  stay  was  a  series  of  sensational  happen¬ 
ings.  First  Leona  confessed  as  having  been  the  only  one 
of  the  six  who  fired  at  Calmes ;  then  Deamore  went  insane, 
or  pretended  violent  madness;  Bocchio,  the  student  who 
wore  eyeglasses,  fell  into  settled  melancholy,  and  the  other 
three  lost  their  nerve  almost  to  the  verge  of  a  breakdown, 
even  Rini  forgetting  to  fondle  and  play  with  his  little  Chi¬ 
huahua  dog,  his  cell  companion  for  more  than  a  year. 

And  during  the  recent  days  Captain  Rennyson  re¬ 
ceived  strange  letters.  One  sent  from  a  remote  postoffice 
in  North  Carolina  offered  him  $50,000  with  an  additional 
$25,000  to  be  given  to  Superintendent  of  Police  Molony  to 
allow  the  men  to  escape,  and  one  threatening  him  with 
Blackhand  vengeance.  These  letters  were  not  seriously 
considered. 

As  the  sands  of  their  mortal  days  ran  lower  in  Life’s 
Hour  Glass,  the  state  of  the  six  men  presented  the  awful 
picture  of  wrecked  and  shattered  nerves,  and  emotionalism 
touching  the  very  fringe  of  stark  madness.  Deamore  was 
the  first  to  break  entirely,  and  setting  a  lot  of  papers  aflame 
in  his  cell  and  smashing  stools  and  benches  furiously,  he 
cried  that  the  whole  world  was  on  fire  and  that  he  was 
being  consumed.  His  ravings  carried  on  intermittently  un¬ 
til  his  voice  choked  in  the  gripe  of  the  hangman’s  noose. 


6 


Leona,  after  his  confession  that  he  alone  had  fired  the 
fatal  shot  and  that  the  other  five  had  had  no  part  in  the 
killing  of  Mr.  Calmes,  showed  a  phase  of  emotional  insan¬ 
ity.  He  paced  ceaselessly  to  and  fro  in  the  narrow  confines 
of  his  cell,  and  would  occasionally  exclaim:  “I  am  dead 
now,  already  am  I  dead;  they  cannot  hang  me,  because  a 
dead  man  would  not  look  well  dropping  through  a  gallows 
trap”. 

One  afternoon  he  showed  Captain  Rennyson  a  spool, 
carefully  whittled  in  the  shape  of  a  bullet.  “This  they  shot 
through  me,”  he  cried;  “I  am  dead,  they  cannot  hang  a 
dead  man.” 

Captain  Rennyson  was  alarmed,  and  well  he  might  be 
as  the  character  of  the  spool  carving  pointed  to  the  fact 
that  Leona  had  somewhere  concealed  in  his  cell  a  very  sharp 
knife.  Leona  was  taken  to  the  bull  ring,  stripped  and 
searched  by  deputies.  Nothing  was  found.  Neither  was 
the  knife  in  evidence  in  any  corner  or  hiding  place  of  the 
cell,  and  the  incident  for  the  time  was  closed. 

Lamantia,  always  sad-eyed,  and  appealing  in  voice  and 
action,  maintained  a  surprising  calmness  through  the  clos¬ 
ing  days  in  the  Condemned  Row  at  the  Prison  in  New  Or¬ 
leans.  With  his  face  close  to  the  steel  lattice  work  of  his 
cell,  he  would  daily  ask  the  visiting  newspaper  men :  “Any 
good  news  for  us  boys  outside;  you  think  we  have  any 
chance?”  Evasive  answers  expressing  the  negative  would 
generally  wring  from  him  a  deep  sigh,  and  the  remark :  “Oh, 
we  did  no  killing,  how  can  they  hang  so  many  men  who 
are  innocent!” 

A  little  dog,  not  much  on  hair,  but  with  big  pointed 
ears  and  a  stub  of  a  tail  nervously  wagging,  lay  on  Joe 
Rini’s  bed,  staring  with  large  inquisitive  eyes  through  the 
cross  net  work  of  steel  bars,  at  the  group  of  men  in  the 
long  corridor  of  condemned  row.  It  was  the  evening  of 
Tuesday,  the  day  before  the  men  were  removed  to  Amite 
for  the  hanging. 

The  little  dog  was  a  pathetic  picture,  she  seemed  to 
sense  the  impending  doom  which  hung  like  a  pall  over  her 
master,  and  whimpers  and  growls  expressed  the  varying 
canine  appreciation  of  the  visit. 

Captain  Rennyson,  the  prison  governor,  and  newspaper 
men  were  in  the  party,  and  as  Rini  laced  his  fingers  through 
the  bars  and  leaned  over  the  bed  on  which  the  dog  lay,  the 

7 


devoted  animal  stood  up  on  her  hind  legs  and  placed  her 
fore-paws  affectionately  on  the  man’s  side. 

“Toots  she  love  me  very  much,”  said  Rini  with  a  sad 
smile,  “and  me  when  I  go  next  Friday,  I  think  of  Toots 
and  wonder  for  her,  where  she  go  and  who  will  be  good 
to  her.” 

Poor  little  Toots  had  lived  for  more  than  two  years 
from  whining  puppyhood  in  the  cell  with  Rini.  She  came 
as  such  a  tiny  dog,  hardly  with  her  eyes  opened,  and  Rini 
nursed  her  on  the  bottle  through  the  weeks  of  crying  in¬ 
fancy  to  the  strength  of  playful  canine  adolescence. 

Toots  was  a  Chihuahua  or  hairless  dog.  She  had 
hair  but  not  too  much,  and  what  hair  there  was  worked 
out  into  beautiful  white  and  brown  spots. 

The  dog  certainly  knew  that  some  heavy  woe  was  im¬ 
pending  and  all  day  long  during  the  final  death  watch,  she 
moped  on  Rini’s  bed,  and  cried  and  whimpered  in  her  sleep. 

“You  see  the  dog,”  said  Rini,  that  last  evening  in  the 
New  Orleans  Prison ;  “she  knows  something  going  to  hap¬ 
pen,  and  already  she  begin  her  cryin’.  Toots,  when  I  am 
gone,  maybe  my  father  take  her  and  love  her,  because  I 
loved  her  and  she  loved  me.” 

Deputy  Sheriff  Elliott  gave  Toots  to  Rini,  and  the  con¬ 
demned  man’s  love  or  his  dog,  in  the  face  of  his  great 
trouble,  demonstrated  at  least  one  noble  and  redeeming 
characteristic. 

Early  the  next  morning,  shackled  hand  and  foot,  and 
ready  for  his  death  journey  to  Amite,  Rini  took  an  affection¬ 
ate  farewell  of  the  whining,  whimpering  Toots.  He  held 
the  dog  on  his  lap  until  it  was  time  to  go,  and  then  rais¬ 
ing  the  protesting,  plaintively  howling  animal  with  diffi¬ 
culty  in  his  steel  girt  hands,  he  kissed  her  several  times  on 
the  forehead,  and  with  tears  streaming  down  his  cheeks 
passed  her  to  Deputy  Sheriff  Elliott. 

In  the  bull  ring,  just  in  front  of  Rini,  Guy,  Cap¬ 
tain  Rennyson’s  magnificent  great  Dane,  crouched  on  his 
haunches,  surveying  with  soft,  questioning  eyes,  the  crying 
struggling  little  dog  in  Deputy  Elliott’s  arms.  Toots  saw 
the  bulky  Guy,  but  could  not  appreciate  the  sympathy  ex¬ 
pressed  in  his  gaze,  and  struggling  to  be  free,  she  yelped 
and  barked  in  a  canine  hysteria,  until  Elliott  removed  her 
to  the  Captain’s  room  upstairs.  The  sympathetic  Guy,  with 
never  a  resentful  growl,  arose  slowly  from  the  floor  and 


8 


with  drooping  tail  moved  out  of  the  bull  ring,  to  his  quar¬ 
ters  in  the  sheriffs’  office. 

Sheriff  Bowden,  of  Tangipahoa,  with  District  Attor¬ 
ney  Matt  Allen,  who  conducted  the  prosecution  of  the  Ital¬ 
ians  at  their  several  trials  in  Amite;  Dr.  W.  H.  McClen¬ 
don,  the  coroner  of  the  Parish,  and  several  deputy  sheriffs 
arrived  Tuesday  night  in  New  Orleans,  to  take  charge  of 
the  prisoners  and  carry  them  to  the  Hard  Mart  of  Criminal 
Trade,  where  they  were  to  yield  their  lives  for  a  life  they 
had  taken,  as  the  law  required. 

The  last  two  days  had  produced  new  and  startling 
phases  to  the  internationally  celebrated  case.  Sheriff  Bow¬ 
den  had  accepted  Governor  Parker’s  tender  of  troops,  and 
Adjutant  General  L.  A.  Toombs  had  his  soldiers  in  bar¬ 
racks  under  command  of  Captain  Carter  all  ready  for  the 
journey  to  Amite.  The  soldiers  were  to  guard  against  any 
attack  that  might  be  made  on  the  prison  train  by  friends 
of  the  condemned,  planning  a  rescue,  and  also,  as  some 
suggested,  to  protect  the  prisoners  from  possible  mob  vio¬ 
lence,  should  a  stay  of  execution  be  ordered  at  the  last 
minute. 

A  determined  effort  had  been  made  in  the  United  States 
Court  by  the  attorneys  for  the  Italians  to  obtain  a  Writ  of 
Error  and  Stay  of  Execution.  The  legal  battle  was  fought 
by  Girault  Farrar,  A.  D.  Henriques  and  George  Gulotta, 
representing  the  condemned  men,  and  T.  Semmes  Walms- 
ley,  Amos  Ponder,  District  Attorney  iUlen,  District  At¬ 
torney  R.  H.  Marr,  of  Orleans  Parish,  representing  the 
State. 

Both  Sheriff  Bowden  and  George  Williams,  the  Crim¬ 
inal  Sheriff  of  Orleans  Parish,  who  were  made  defendants 
in  the  writs  were  present  in  court.  Judge  Rufus  Foster 
who  heard  the  proceedings  denied  the  writs  late  Tuesday 
night,  and  the  last  barrier  to  the  gallows  was  removed. 

Mr.  Farrar  at  once  announced  that  he  would  leave  for 
Washington  that  night  to  lodge  an  appeal  with  the  United 
States  Supreme  Court.  No  stay  of  execution  was  allowed 
him,  and  under  his  plan  he  would  have  to  leave  Tuesday 
night  to  reach  Washington  in  time  to  present  his  case. 

Mr.  Farrar  did  take  the  train  for  Washington,  but 
found  that  his  law  partners  in  the  case  were  not  on  board 
with  the  necessary  papers,  so  he  abridged  his  journey  at 
Bay  St.  Louis  and  returned  to  the  city. 


9 


A  fraction  of  a  second  before  the  hangman  (stooping)  cut  the  rope,  the  photographer  took  this  scene.  Roy 


Captain  Rennyson,  because  of  his  long  experience  in 
prison  management,  volunteered  to  render  Sheriff  Bowden 
every  assistance  possible  in  the  execution  of  the  six,  and 
when  the  sheriff  arrived  Tuesday  night,  he  had  ready  the 
one  hundred  feet  of  five-eighths  rope,  the  six  black  caps 
for  the  murderers,  and  the  mask  for  the  hangman. 

Gathered  in  the  Captain’s  office  that  night  were  the 
sheriff  and  his  party  from  Amite;  Sheriff  Williams,  Frank 
Sullivan,  former  criminal  sheriff,  Col.  John  P.  Sullivan, 
General  Toombs,  Superintendent  of  Police  Molony,  and 
others  with  a  number  of  newspaper  men,  local  and  from 
points  in  the  north  and  east. 

Captain  Rennyson  showed  the  black  caps,  and  Sheriff 
Bowden’s  curiosity  to  see  how  they  were  adjusted,  was 
satisfied  by  a  newspaper  man  who  tried  on  one  of  the 
hoodwinks,  and  then  fitted  the  hangman’s  mask  to  his  face. 

The  black  caps  were  there,  so  was  the  executioner’s 
mask,  and  to  add  to  this  collection  of  horrors,  Captain  Ren¬ 
nyson  took  from  an  old  armoir  in  a  corner  of  the  room  a 
mass  of  dangling,  twisting  white  cords.  “These  are  for 
their  legs,  when  they  are  standing  on  the  trap,”  he  ex¬ 
plained.  It  is  necessary  that  a  man  in  execution  should  be 
carefully  pinioned,  as  if  his  neck  is  not  broken  and  he  strug¬ 
gles  in  strangulation,  his  contortions  would  not  be  pleasant 
to  look  upon.” 

Sheriff  Bowden,  who  was  not  in  the  best  of  health,  lay 
at  restful  ease  on  Captain  Rennyson’s  bed,  and  seemed  in¬ 
terested  in  the  accounts  the  Prison  Governor  gave  of  the 
actions  and  mental  conditions  of  the  men.  Captain  Ren¬ 
nyson,  although  long  associated  with  the  management  of 
a  big  prison,  and  in  daily  contact  with  the  ugly  phases  of 
prison  life,  is  nevertheless  a  humane  man,  thoroughly  ap¬ 
preciative  that  all  prison  codes  need  reformation,  and  that 
Society  to  maintain  Civilization’s  high  standards,  must  get 
away  from  the  present  barbarous  forms  of  capital  punish¬ 
ment. 

The  Captain  had  known  the  doomed  Italians  for  all 
of  three  years,  as  the  better  part  of  that  time  they  spent 
in  his  jail,  and  he  learned  to  like  them.  They  were  good 
prisoners,  always  polite  to  visitors  and  never  violating 
rules,  or  taking  advantage  of  their  unfortunate  position, 
and  imposing  upon  Captain  Rennyson’s  kindness. 

“They  are  in  a  rather  bad  state  tonight,”  Captain  Ren- 

11 


nyson  informed  Sheriff  Bowden,  “and  naturally  so,  but  I 
don’t  think  that  they  are  going  to  give  us  any  trouble.” 

One  of  the  newspaper  men  present  had  witnessed  thir¬ 
ty-six  executions,  and  was  full  of  gloomy  scaffold  lore, 
which  he  dispensed  with  a  wealth  of  hideous  detail  for  the 
benefit  of  Sheriff  Bowden,  who  was  something  of  a  stranger 
to  the  forms  and  ceremonies  attending  the  fatal  exercise 
of  the  Law’s  severest  mandate. 

Frank  Sullivan,  the  former  sheriff,  smiled  and  ob¬ 
served,  indicating  the  newspaper  man :  “There  he  is  sheriff, 
you  never  see  him  in  the  prison  until  around  execution  time, 
ask  him,  he  can  tell  you  all  about  it.” 

“In  all  the  men  you  have  seen  hanged,”  asked  Sheriff 
Bowden  from  the  bed,  “was  there  ever  an  instance  where 
it  was  necessary  to  carry  the  culprit  to  the  scaffold?” 

“No,”  returned  the  writer;  “I  have  seen  some  weak 
and  faltering  victims  of  the  noose,  but  never  a  man  in  the 
actual  state  of  collapse.  It’s  true  that  Sam  Sparo  was 
close  to  a  frenzy  of  fear  as  he  stood  on  the  gallows  out  there 
in  the  prison  yard.  He  had  diced  with  Death  and  lost,  and 
was  to  give  his  own  life  for  having  abridged  the  doleful 
days  of  poor  Tony  Luciano,  with  several  pistol  shots  in  the 
back.  Sparo  was  weak,  swayed  on  the  gallows  with  tremb¬ 
ling  limbs,  as  they  trussed  him  up  for  the  drop  with  sleek 
new  ropes,  and  had  it  not  been  for  big  ‘Doc’  Briney,  one 
of  Archie’s  deputies,  he  wmuld  have  thrown  himself  over 
the  gallows  rail  to  the  hard  paved  yard  fifteen  feet  below. 
‘Doc’  caught  him  just  in  time. 

“And  then  when  Hangman  Johnson  came,  in  funereal 
robes  and  black  mask,  and  Sparo  saw  the  darkly  repulsive 
face  over  his  shoulder,  he  cried  in  a  spasm  of  fear  ‘Hurry 
upa,  Johnson,  work  queek !’  Johnson  worked  quick  as  he 
always  did  and  as  the  trap  sprung,  and  Sparo’s  body  took 
the  awful  plunge,  a  muffled  shriek  came  from  beneath  the 
black  cap.  The  shriek  had  hardly  begun,  ere  it  ended,  in 
a  loud  crack,  that  seemed  to  merge  with  the  hollow  echo 
of  the  clanging  trap. 

“I  was  just  in  front  of  the  gallows,  and  heard  the 
crack  plainly.  It  was  Sparo’s  neck  violently  breaking,  and 
as  Coroner  O’Hara’s  examination  showed  later,  the  whole 
neck  bone  structure  had  been  shattered  and  splintered; 
that  was  why  the  snapping  was  so  loud  and  distinct  among 
the  other  gruesome  gallows  sounds. 


12 


“No,  Sheriff,  men  don’t  generally  go  to  the  scaffold  in 
a  collapse;  it  always  seemed  to  me  that  they  inclined  to 
Lady  Macbeth’s  advice  to  her  husband  about  to  kill  the 
sleeping  Duncan,  and  screwed  their  courage  to  the  stick¬ 
ing  place,  so  as  not  to  fail  in  their  painful  passing  out. 

“I  think  you  will  have  no  trouble  with  your  prisoners 
sheriff,  and  from  my  experience,  I  dare  hazard  the  opinion 
that  they  will  go  boldly  to  their  fate.  There’s  one  at  least 
I’m  sure  of  and  that’s  Rini.” 

“What  was  that,  Rini?”  inquired  Captain  Rennyson. 

“Yes,  Rini,”  was  the  answer. 

“They’ll  have  to  carry  him,”  was  the  prison  governor’s 
doleful  prediction,  a  prediction  which  was  not  borne  out  by 
the  events  of  the  tragic  day  of  execution  at  Amite. 

The  night  wore  on,  and  the  prisoners  at  odds  with  sleep 
paced  or  crouched  disconsolately  in  their  cells  looking  for¬ 
ward  to  the  morrow’s  journey. 

Bocchio,  the  poor,  weak  student,  who  had  once  con¬ 
templated  Holy  Orders  as  his  life’s  mission,  lay  back  on 
his  bed  against  the  steel  lattice  work;  his  gold  rimmed 
glasses  were  on  his  well  shaped  nose ;  his  eyes  were  closed, 
and  the  peak  of  the  cap  was  drawn  down  on  his  forehead. 
In  a  husky  monotone  he  asked  over  and  over  “What  time 
is  it,  what  time  is  it?” 

Leona  paced  restlessly  back  and  forth  in  his  cell,  and 
Deamore  in  hoarse  tones  roared  his  melancholy  plaint,  with 
wildly  tossing  head  and  violently  swinging  arms.  Lamantia 
asked  anxiously  of  the  death  watch  if  it  was  true  they  were 
to  be  taken  to  Amite  in  the  morning ;  Rini  nervously  fondled 
his  dog,  and  Giglio  sat  staring  out  into  the  condemned 
corridor,  remarking  every  now  and  then  as  though  to  him¬ 
self  :  “It’s  a  shame  to  hang  five  innocent  men,  Governor 
Parker  did  not  treat  us  right”. 

“Try  to  get  a  little  sleep,  Joe,”  advised  a  newspaper 
man  accompanying  Captain  Rennyson  on  a  late  visit  to 
the  tier. 

“Sleep,”  answered  Giglio,  with  a  hard  smile,  “I’d  like 
to;  why,  I  haven’t  slept  for  two  nights;  with  a  crazy  man 
on  one  side  yelling  that  the  world’s  on  fire,  and  another  one 
on  the  other  side  bawling  out  that  he’s  shot  and  already 
dead  and  can’t  be  hung,  I  had  a  fine  chance  for  quiet  rest.” 

Giglio,  always  courteous,  smiling  and  polite,  was  just 
a  little  surly  on  his  last  night  in  the  New  Orleans  prison. 


13 


The  iron  tongue  of  night  was  telling  twelve,  when  the 
group  in  the  Captain’s  room  upstairs  thinned  out.  They 
had  discussed  murders,  hangings,  executioners  and  such 
topics  that  accord  well  with  jails  and  prisons,  and  the 
veteran  newspaper  man  took  occasion  to  voice  a  protest 
against  the  horrible  modes  society  follows  in  doing  away 
with  its  objectionable  units. 

“Hanging  is  a  barbarous  thing,”  the  writer  observed, 
“so  full  of  terrific  chances  for  protracted  suffering.  You 
remember  the  case  a  few  years  ago,  upstairs  there  in  the 
Tower,  don’t  you,  Captain?  It  was  one  time  that  I  saw 
you  moved  almost  to  nervous  weeping.” 

“God,  how  that  poor  wretch  cried  in  choked  and 
wheezy  tones  for  Heaven’s  mercy,  as  he  writhed  at  the  end 
of  that  strangling  cord.  For  twenty  minutes  after  the  drop 
fell,  he  swayed,  spun  and  fought,  not  for  life,  but  to  find 
the  Portals  of  Death,  where  in  the  lethal  shadows,  his  soul 
might  sleep,  and  the  bodily  torment  end. 

“I  will  never  forget  that  sigh  which  came  from  under 
the  black  hood  when  the  rope  had  slipped  in  place  and  the 
exhausted  frame  quickly  yielded  its  failing  energies  to  the 
grip  of  strangulation.  It  was  a  deep,  thankful  sigh,  a  sigh 
of  relief,  and  the  quiver  of  death  speedily  passed  down  the 
body.  ‘Thank  God,  it’s  over,’  murmurred  in  an  undertone, 
the  good  priest  Father  Helinski,  so  faithful  in  his  attend¬ 
ance  on  gallows  victims. 

“In  my  experience  as  a  newspaper  man  I  have  seen 
many  criminals  strangle  horribly,  and  such  a  mode  of  cap¬ 
ital  punishment  has  no  place  in  a  civilization  such  as  is  ours. 

“What  do  you  think  of  the  electric  chair?”  asked  Sher¬ 
iff  Bowden. 

“I  know  nothing  of  electricity,  and  have  never  seen 
the  chair  in  operation,”  answered  the  old  reporter,  “but  I 
am  told  that  there  are  some  constitutions  which  resist  the 
current  until  their  very  flesh  fries  and  burns.” 

“How  about  the  guillotine?”  advanced  a  young  re¬ 
porter,  with  only  four  hangings  to  his  professional  recoi’d. 

“It  may  be  quick  and  certain  if  the  machine  is  good,  but 
disgustingly  bloody  and  unsightly”,  commented  the  veteran. 

“And  then,  too,”  he  went  on,  “if  you’ve  read  much 
French  History,  dating  from  the  Revolution,  and  modern 
French  criminal  annals,  you  will  find  instances  where  the 
guillotine  had  its  fearsome  bungles.  When  they  executed 


14 


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f  .  .  ..  ■  . ^«**»**« 


Roy  Leona,  on  the  left  trap,  is  watching  the  hangman  tie  the  hands  of  Natale  Deamore,  on  the  right  trap. 


Chalier  in  Lyons,  the  National  Assembly  sent  down  from 
Paris  a  worn  out  ‘Red  Widow’  with  ungreased  grooves  and 
dull  knife  blade.  The  result  was  the  knife  fell  seven  times 
before  Chalier  finally  sneezed  in  the  sack.  This  case  has 
some  more  modern  parallels,  so  we  may  dismiss  the  guil¬ 
lotine  as  being  in  a  measure  uncertain.” 

“What  mode  of  capital  punishment  would  you  sug¬ 
gest,”  Sheriff  Bowden  wanted  to  know. 

“The  Lethal  Chamber,”  was  the  ready  reply.  “There 
is,  a  clean,  a  certain  and  a  painless  way  for  Society  to  rid 
itself  of  its  objectionable  units.  There  could  be  no  failure 
in  this;  have  a  nicely  fitted  up  condemned  chamber,  with 
the  gas  openings  concealed  from  view.  Set  no  certain  time 
for  the  execution,  but  have  a  period  of  death  during  the 
term  of  a  week  at  the  sheriff’s  discretion.  Drug  the  prison¬ 
er’s  food  some  night  during  the  period,  and  when  he  has 
fallen  asleep  turn  on  the  gas.  There’d  be  no  struggling 
torture,  no  horror  attending  this,  and  the  Lethal  Chamber 
would  express  the  humane  in  legal  executions. 

“Society  is  too  far  advanced  to  exact  vengeance  after 
the  order  of  the  old  Lex  Talionis,  an  eye  for  an  eye  and  a 
tooth  for  a  tooth,  and  Society  should  be  satisfied  to  destroy 
its  criminals  and  not  torture  them,  or  subject  them  to  the 
chance  of  torture.” 

It  was  generally  agreed  that  the  Lethal  Chamber  was 
the  thing,  but  yet,  as  said  one  of  the  company,  if  execu¬ 
tion  was  robbed  of  its  terrors,  it  would  not  serve  as  a 
heavy  lesson  to  wrong  doers. 

As  early  as  five  o’clock,  in  the  foggy  dawn  of  an  un¬ 
usually  chill  May  morning,  the  escort  for  the  patrol  wagons 
to  the  train  which  was  to  convey  the  prisoners  to  Amite 
arrived  in  front  of  the  big  jail  in  Gravier  Street.  First 
came  the  motorcycle  police,  on  their  chugging  machines, 
and  next  several  automobile  loads  of  soldiers  armed  with 
improved  rifles.  Two  auto  patrols  backed  up  to  the  long 
barred  gate,  and  the  grim  array  awaited  the  hour  set  for 
leaving  the  prison. 

Sheriff  Bowden  arrived  from  the  hotel  where  he  sought 
a  few  hours  sleep,  with  Dr.  McClendon,  District  Attorney 
Allen  and  the  Amite  deputies,  at  5:30,  and  Captain  Renny- 
son  who  had  remained  up  through  the  night,  went  to  call 
the  prisoners  from  their  cells  and  shackle  them  for  their 
journey. 


16 


It  was  then  that  the  mystery  of  Leona’s  whittled  spool 
was  solved  in  an  incident  that  was  close  to  tragedy.  Leona 
in  his  cell  madly  slashed  at  his  breast  with  a  long  knife. 
Captain  Rennyson,  alone  and  single-handed,  subdued  the 
desperate  man,  and  took  from  him  the  weapon.  Whether 
Leona  lacked  courage  or  strength,  it  cannot  be  said,  but 
certain  it  is  that  his  several  wounds  were  not  deep  and  were 
driven  with  a  faltering  hand.  The  knife  had  been  con¬ 
cealed  under  a  drain  pipe  in  the  cell. 

Leona’s  wounds  were  dressed  by  Dr.  McClendon  and 
the  ambulance  surgeons,  and  the  man  reclined  on  the  bench 
in  the  bull  ring,  shackled  hand  and  foot,  and  his  groans 
were  heard  above  the  murmurs  and  complaints  of  the 
others. 

It  was  necessary  for  Captain  Rennyson  and  his  depu¬ 
ties  to  forcibly  dress  Deamore,  and  the  other  four  gave  no 
trouble,  Rini,  only  for  a  moment  losing  his  calm,  and  ex¬ 
pressing  a  sudden  flash  of  rage  in  a  bitter  curse,  hurled  at 
all  his  enemies.  General  Toombs  had  provided  a  good  es¬ 
cort  of  military,  forty  men  of  the  headquarters  troop  108th 
cavalry  commanded  by  Captain  Harold  Nathan.  Captain 
Thurber  B.  Richey,  of  Battery  A,  and  Lieutenant  Eric  V. 
Lucy,  with  a  squad  of  picked  men,  waited  at  the  train. 

The  journey  of  sixty-eight  miles  to  Amite  was  made 
without  incident.  The  prisoners  were  in  a  special  car 
guarded  by  the  soldiers,  and  supplementing  this  force  were 
two  special  plain  clothes  men  from  the  New  Orleans  Police, 
furnished  by  Superintendent  Molony  for  the  occasion. 
These  were  Fred  Beckler,  formerly  well  known  as  a  boxer 
and  athlete,  and  Paul  Surcouf,  experts  in  the  use  of  police 
tear  bombs,  and  other  instruments  and  weapons  in  riot¬ 
ing  and  street  warfare.  The  motorcycle  police  commanded 
by  Captain  Harry  Duvalle  accompanied  the  prison  party 
only  to  the  railroad  station. 

Amite  was  quiet  and  there  was  no  feeling  of  bitter¬ 
ness  against  the  Italians  during  the  last  days  of  the  tragedy. 
The  people  were  out  to  see  the  men  leave  the  train  and  make 
the  three  blocks  journey  to  the  prison  in  automobiles,  but 
something  like  sympathy,  rather  than  anger  seemed  to 
temper  the  crowd. 

The  Amite  prison  is  of  the  usual  type  of  small  town 
county  jails.  Tt  stands  in  a  great  square  about  fifty  feet 
from  the  court  house.  It  has  no  yard,  and  it  was  necessary 


17 


for  Sheriff  Bowden  to  build  a  large  palisade,  forming  two 
sides  of  an  inclosure.  The  prison  walls  forming  an  angle, 
completed  the  inclosure.  The  scaffold  covered  nearly  all 
of  the  inclosure,  and  the  only  open  space  was  on  the  south 
side,  towTard  the  jail  door,  where  steps  built  at  an  angle 
reached  the  platform.  The  jail  has  three  stories,  and 
its  corridors  are  very  cramped.  In  the  tower  is  the  per¬ 
manent  gallows,  but  it  was  only  used  once,  to  work  high 
justice  on  Avery  Blount,  a  feudist  and  bad  man.  The 
scaffold  is  a  small  affair  with  steel  trap  doors  opening 
into  a  chute,  and  would  hardly  do  as  an  instrument  of 
punishment  where  as  many  as  six  were  to  take  the  fatal 
plunge  to  death. 

Deamore  and  Leona  were  placed  in  cells  adjoining  on 
the  second  story,  close  to  the  gallows  in  the  improvised 
yard.  Rini  and  Giglio  were  cell  mates  far  down  the  cor¬ 
ridor  and  just  next  to  them  in  a  single  cell  were  Lamantia 
and  Bocchio.  These  last  cells  opened  on  a  very  narrow 
corridor  and  faced  barred  windows  overlooking  the  court 
house  square  where  the  soldiers  had  pitched  their  tents. 

The  men  could  hear  the  activities  of  the  camp  below, 
and  to  their  dying  ears  on  their  last  two  evenings  on 
earth,  just  at  sunset,  came  the  plaintive  wail  of  the  bugle 
sounding  “taps.”  “I  remember  that  in  the  army,”  said 
Rini  the  night  before  his  execution;  “they  play  that  music 
over  dead  people,  and  its  just  as  well  for  them  to  play  it 
for  me,  because  I  was  in  the  army.” 

Thursday  there  was  another  effort  put  forth  to  save 
Bocchio.  The  sad-faced  young  man  had  asked  to  see  Mrs. 
Calmes,  widow  of  the  slain  man.  Mrs.  Calmes,  broken  and 
worn  from  the  excitement  of  the  last  hard  days,  and  dis¬ 
turbed  by  threatening  letters  received  from  an  unknown 
source,  could  not  come  but  she  sent  a  relative.  The  rela¬ 
tive  heard  Bocchio’s  story,  and  some  of  the  Calmes  family 
showed  the  true  spirit  of  forgiveness  by  personally  appeal¬ 
ing  to  Governor  Parker  in  Baton  Rouge.  The  Governor, 
however,  would  not  change  his  mind;  he  felt  that  justice 
could  best  be  conserved  by  carrying  out  the  mandate  of  the 
court  which  said  that  all  six  must  hang. 

Bocchio,  shivering  and  in  tears  spent  that  last  Thurs¬ 
day,  bereft  even  of  the  faintest  ray  of  hope.  Late  Thurs¬ 
day  evening,  just  after  the  melancholy  wail  of  the  bugle 
sounding  “taps”  had  died  in  far  off  echoes  on  the  cool  Spring 

18 


air,  J.  W.  Mixson,  deputy  sheriff  of  Tangipahoa,  brought 
the  condemned  men  Mrs.  Calmes’  last  message.  The  mes¬ 
sage  was  that  she  forgave  the  men,  and  hoped  that  they 
would  find  peace  in  the  hereafter.  Rini  was  eloquent  in  a 
crude,  uncultured  way  in  sending  a  message  in  return  to  Mrs. 
Calmes.  “The  poor  lady  she  lost  her  man,  and  she  felt 
bitter,”  he  said,  “and  we  are  glad  that  she  has  no  hatred 
for  us.  Tell  her  we  are  sorry  for  her  and  that  we  thank 
her  for  her  message.” 

“For  God  sake  you  gentlemen  there  from  the  news¬ 
papers,”  said  Rini  through  the  bars  of  his  cell  after  Mr. 
Mixson  had  gone,  “tell  the  world  for  us  how  terrible  is 
capital  punishment.  I  hope  that  God  will  grant  this  prayer, 
that  we  six  will  be  the  last  men  to  die  on  the  gallows. 
Often  I  have  heard  of  innocent  men  dying  by  the  rope  but 
I  said  no,  it  cannot  be;  now  I  know  it  can  be  because  I, 
an  innocent  man,  must  died  on  the  gallows  tomorrow.” 

From  down  the  corridor  came  the  sobbing  cries  of 
Deamore,  who  having  bid  his  wife  and  children  goodbye, 
yielded  to  his  wild  emotional  impulses.  “Oh  God,  my  baby, 
look  at  my  baby,  there  she  goes ;  I  would  die  for  my  baby, 
and  tomorrow  they  hang  her  papa.”  The  wife  and  daugh¬ 
ter  and  niece  left  the  prison,  passing  the  steps  of  the  gal¬ 
lows  as  they  entered  the  court  house  square,  all  crying 
bitterly.  Captain  Richey  was  in  the  cell  corridor  during 
these  final  interviews,  and  was  careful  that  his  revolver 
in  its  holster  was  out  of  reach  of  desperate  hands  thrust 
suddenly  between  the  narrow  bars. 

The  men  passed  the  last  night  variously,  Deamore 
occasionally  bursting  forth  in  emotional  weeping;  Leona 
nervously  pacing  his  cell;  Bocchio  and  Lamantia  in  deep 
depression,  and  Rini  and  Giglio  smoking,  talking  and  oc¬ 
casionally  napping.  About  three  in  the  morning  Beckler 
and  Surcouf,  with  Captain  Nathan’s  kindly  assistance  at 
the  camp  kitchen,  prepared  for  Rini  and  Giglio  appetizing 
egg  sandwiches.  The  other  four  cared  for  nothing  to 
eat. 

Late  Thursday  night  Captain  Rennyson  arrived  from 
New  Orleans  in  an  automobile.  He  brought  the  100 
feet  of  rope  with  which  the  men  were  to  be  Ranged, 
and  which  had  been  stretched  in  the  prison  at  New  Orleans. 
His  companion  on  the  journey  was  “Joe,  the  Hangman.” 
Joe,  a  bowed  man,  with  stiff,  sandy  hair,  short  grey  mus- 


19 


hrnnrtiit  11  non  the  scaffold. 


tache,  tobacco  stained;  and  fiercely  bushy  eye-brows,  is  a 
sort  of  “jack”  carpenter  and  iron  worker  of  New  Orleans. 
He  is  61  years  old,  lives  in  Carrollton,  and  before  dispatch¬ 
ing  the  Italians  had  hanged  ten  or  a  dozen  men  in  the 
Parish  Prison  in  New  Orleans. 

As  a  hangman  he  is  a  butcherly  worker,  and  has  such 
little  skill  that  his  victims  are  lucky  indeed  if  their  necks 
break  on  the  drop.  He  is  callous  and  hardened  as  is  nat¬ 
ural  for  a  man  of  his  trade,  and  when  on  a  “job”  as  he 
terms  it,  must  have  a  drink  of  whiskey  every  now  and  then. 

Sheriff  Bowden  is  a  man  of  judgment  and  determined 
courage.  He  had  said  that  he  would  bring  his  prisoners 
openly  to  Amite,  notwithstanding  veiled  threats  in  anony¬ 
mous  letters,  and  he  carried  out  his  plan,  letting  it  be 
known  the  day  before.  The  sheriff  gave  little  consideration 
to  the  threatening  letters;  he  knows  most  of  the  Italians 
of  his  parish,  and  recognized  in  them  peaceful  law-abiding 
citizens.  “These  letters,  I  think,”  said  the  sheriff,  “have 
been  sent  by  cranks,  or  those  extraordinary  and  abnormal 
creatures,  who  find  the  present  awful  instance  the  occasion 
to  show  their  skill  as  mysterious  letter  writers.  I  don’t 
think  any  of  the  letters  received  were  sent  by  Italians.” 

The  sheriff  did  everything  he  possibly  could  for  his 
prisoners  and  allowed  them  all  they  asked  for  in  the  way 
of  food  or  such  considerations  as  a  prison  may  afford. 

On  Thursday,  the  day  before  the  hanging,  Mr.  Farrar, 
the  attorney,  recognized  as  one  of  the  leading  lawyers  of 
his  time,  made  a  last  minute  attempt  to  save  his  clients. 
He  tried  to  obtain  an  aeroplane  to  fly  to  Washington  for 
his  appeal  to  the  United  States  Supreme  Court,  but  fail¬ 
ing,  sent  a  rather  sensational  telegram  to  Hon.  Henry  L. 
Fuqua,  governor-elect  of  Louisiana.  Mr.  Farrar  urged 
that  Mr.  Fuqua  either  have  the  men  commuted  or  cancel 
the  big  inaugural  ball  planned  for  the  Capital,  May  19. 
Ending  one  gubernatorial  term  with  a  wholesale  hanging 
and  beginning  another  with  a  great  inaugural  ball  did  not 
look  well,  Mr.  Farrar  said  in  his  telegram. 

And  now  to  the  last  scene  of  all  that  ends  this  strange 
eventful  history— The  Way  to  the  Gallows  and  the  agony 
under  the  beam. 

iUl  through  the  morning  there  was  an  air  of  sup¬ 
pressed  excitement,  and  Captain  Rennyson,  who  had  volun¬ 
teered  to  assist  Sheriff  Bowden,  and  give  expedition  to 


21 


the  woe-weighted  ceremony,  was  busy  with  the  prepara¬ 
tions.  Early  Joe  the  Hangman  came  from  his  hiding  place 
in  the  prison  kitchen,  nimbly  climbed  the  gallows  and  set 
the  ropes  above  the  two  traps.  The  double  rope  was  coiled 
in  two  lengths  of  fifty  feet  and  fitted  to  the  staples  over 
the  traps.  Joe  his  face  hidden  by  his  black  mask,  deftly 
made  his  nooses  and  retired  to  the  kitchen  where  he 
clamored  loudly  for  a  drink  of  whiskey.  All  the  whiskey 
that  could  be  obtained  had  been  given  to  the  condemned 
men  as  occasional  stimulant  during  the  night  just  passed, 
and  the  hangman  had  to  content  himself  with  strawberry 
wine.  It  was  not  to  his  palate — he  craved  “hot  and  rebellious 
liquor”  but  it  was  strawberry  wine  or  nothing  at  all,  so  Jack 
Ketch  contented  himself  with  the  substitute. 

John  E.  Wilcombe,  the  chief  deputy  sheriff,  read  the 
death  warrants  in  the  jail  at  8  o’clock,  and  the  men,  ex¬ 
cepting  Rini  and  Giglio,  stood  dazed  all  the  while.  Then 
came  two  Catholic  sisters,  with  a  young  girl,  a  devout  church 
worker,  bearing  on  trays  the  sacred  vessels  for  Holy  Com¬ 
munion.  Father  Casimere  Munichia,  of  St.  Helena’s 
Church,  Amite,  and  Father  Martinez,  of  the  Catholic 
Church  at  Independence,  conducted  the  service.  A  bench 
improvised  into  an  altar  served  the  purpose  of  the  holy 
men  and  the  blessed  sarcrament  was  impressively  given, 
the  prisoners  appearing  the  better  for  it. 

The  hapless  six  had  expressed  a  desire  for  chicken 
gumbo  to  be  served  at  eleven  o’clock,  but  their  craving  for 
food  was  gone  when  that  hour  came,  and  only  Rini  and 
Giglio  ate  the  delicious  broth  which  had  been  prepared  with 
extra  care  by  the  direct  order  of  Sheriff  Bowden. 

Bocchio  was  now  in  a  state  of  collapse,  and  as  the 
Golden  Hour  of  Noon  drew  near,  only  Rini  and  Giglio 
showed  real  composure.  Leona  was  nervous  but  unafriad. 
Deamore  wept  but  showed  no  cowardice.  Bocchio  seemed 
unconscious  on  the  floor,  and  Lamantia  lay  on  his  bunk  his 
head  half  concealed  by  his  arms. 

Captain  Richey  and  Lieutenant  Lucy  had  their  soldiers 
well  placed  about  the  ropes  serving  as  a  barrier  outside  the 
jail,  and  the  soldiers  who  arrived  that  morning  from  Frank- 
linton  in  automobiles  were  doing  guard  duty  in  the  square, 
and  keeping  the  small  crowd  beyond  the  moat,  or  rather 
flooded  ditch  which  surrounded  the  square.  Captain  Nathan 
saw  to  the  placing  of  his  detachments,  and  superintending 


22 


all  the  military  arrangements  was  General  Toombs  himself. 

Sheriff  Bowden  who  was  not  well  did  not  come  into 
the  jail  but  stayed  in  his  private  office  in  the  court  house, 
stretched  out  on  a  leather  lounge. 

At  a  few  minutes  before  12  o’clock  Leona  and  Deamore 
were  brought  from  their  cells,  and  their  hands  manacled 
behind  their  backs.  The  men  were  remarkably  cool,  only 
Deamore  sighed  heavily  once  or  twice.  Down  the  narrow 
stairs  they  came  and  into  the  yard,  Father  Munichia  walk¬ 
ing  with  Leona,  and  Father  Martinez  the  last  companion 
to  weeping  Deamore.  The  legal  witnesses  were  on  the  broad 
gallows,  and  the  ready  nooses  hung  over  the  traps.  Cap¬ 
tain  Rennyson  had  full  charge,  and  his  well  ordered  direc¬ 
tion  robbed  the  grim  ceremony  of  much  of  its  horrors. 
Deputies  H.  D.  Storey,  J.  W.  Mixson,  G.  S.  Bankston  and 
Johnson  guarded  the  prisoners,  and  Leona  ascended  the 
steps  first,  with  unfaltering  tread.  Deamore  came  behind, 
and  his  tearful  voice  rose  in  the  woeful  plaint,  “They  hanga 
me,  they  hanga  me,  Oh  God,  they  hang  a  gooda  man.” 

Deamore’s  face  was  a  study  and  might  have  inspired 
an  artist  who  sought  a  subject  to  thoroughly  convey  the 
impression  of  a  deep  heart-searching  grief.  His  face  up¬ 
turned  in  the  glare  of  the  noon-day  sun,  was  white  and 
drawn  and  about  his  chin  and  jaws  was  a  disfiguring 
growth  of  beard.  His  eyes  were  glazed  with  tears,  and 
there  was  nothing  of  fierceness  or  hatred  in  his  expression, 
only  grief,  a  pathos  which  seemed  to  reveal  a  soul  in  dark¬ 
ness  and  sorrow. 

“Pray  for  me,  everybody,  oh,  pray  for  me,  hard!” 
he  cried  in  sobbing  voice  as  he  stepped  on  the  scaffold  and 
was  led  to  the  trap  on  the  east  side  of  the  inclosure. 

Three  steps  at  a  time  the  masked  hangman  ran  up 
the  gallows  and  first  rushed  to  Deamore  to  groom  him  for 
the  hard  passing.  Deamore  stood  impassive  as  the  hang¬ 
man  wrapped  the  strands  of  rope  about  his  legs,  and  at¬ 
tached  the  cords  to  his  manacled  wrists.  Leona  on  the 
other  trap  turned  and  watched  the  deathsman  at  his  task, 
and  Deamore  bound,  noosed  and  hooded,  Leona  listened 
again  to  the  words  of  Father  Munichia,  as  “Joe  the  Neck 
Breaker,”  stooped  to  tie  his  legs..  Never  a  word  said  Leona, 
he  stared  into  space  as  it  were  and  waited  for  the  black 
cap  to  blot  out  the  light. 

“Pray  harda  for  me,  everybody,”  came  in  moaning 

23 


tones  ti'om  under  Deamore’s  black  cap.  “Pray  for  me, 
oh,  pray  for  me,  tney  hanga  a  gooda  man.  0,  Deo — !”  It 
was  his  last  word,  the  executioner  with  his  keen  edged 
cleaver  had  cut  the  cord  holding  the  double  traps  and  the 
doors  flew  open.  God  was  in  Deamore’s  thoughts  as  he 
encountered  darkness,  and  Father  Martinez  standing  by  the 
yawning  mouth  of  the  scaffold,  raised  his  hand  in  a  silent 
benediction. 

The  two  bodies  fell  as  one,  came  up  with  a  sudden  jerk, 
which  visibly  stretched  the  neck  several  inches;  and  then 
hung  still.  It  was  clean,  quick  work  from  the  hangman’s 
standpoint,  shattered  neck  bones,  and  all  sensation  ended 
in  one  sharp  blow.  Leona’s  shirt  was  open,  showing  the 
plastered  knife  wounds  in  his  chest. 

The  men  dropped  at  half  a  minute  after  12  o’clock  by 
Captain  Rennyson’s  watch,  and  in  thirteen  or  fourteen 
minutes,  Dr.  McClendon,  the  coronor,  pronounced  them 
dead,  all  pulsation  having  ceased. 

The  bodies  were  cut  down,  placed  in  ready  coffins  and 
carried  away  in  an  automobile  truck  ten  miles  to  Ham¬ 
mond,  where  they  were  to  be  embalmed  before  being  finally 
sent  to  New  Orleans. 

When  the  scaffold  was  cleared,  the  hangman,  who  had 
vanished  in  the  prison,  returned  to  set  his  traps  again  and 
prepare  new  nooses  from  the  long  strands  of  rope. 

With  deft  fingers  the  masked  man  went  to  his  task  and 
soon  the  nooses  were  ready.  Then  came  the  tragic  an¬ 
nouncement  from  the  prison  that  Lamantia  had  stabbed 
himself  to  the  heart.  Dr.  McClendon  who  had  been  sum¬ 
moned  to  the  cell  returned  to  the  yard  and  said  that  La¬ 
mantia  had  no  pulse,  that  one  of  the  many  stab  wounds 
made  with  a  small  knife  had  evidently  reached  his  heart. 

Then  word  came  that  Lamantia  was  not  dead,  and  it 
was  decided  to  bring  him  and  his  cell  mate,  Bocchio,  at  once 
to  the  gallows,  instead  of  Rini  and  Giglio  who  had  been 
named  to  die  on  tne  second  dropping  of  the  traps.  Rini 
and  Giglio  were  in  the  corridor  looking  through  the  bars 
of  the  cell  at  the  bloody  Lamantia  lying  on  the  floor  when 
the  order  came  to  hold  them. 

“What,”  said  Giglio;  “they  are  not  going  to  take  us 
now  after  we  are  ready;  well,  it’s  only  a  case  of  where  we 
are  dying  twice,  and  we’ll  wait  until  they  call  us  again.” 
They  were  returned  to  their  cells. 


24 


Lamantia,  his  eyes  closed,  and  his  head  swaying  in 
sickening  manner  from  side  to  side  was  removed  to  the 
corridor,  and  then,  two  deputies  holding  him  by  the  arms 
and  two  supporting  his  legs,  he  was  carried  down  to  the 
gallows.  He  was  unconscious,  and  Bocchio  who  came  after 
him  was  nearly  so  from  abject  terror.  Bocchio  was  the 
only  one  of  the  six  who  showed  fear,  and  his  collapse  the 
doctors  thought  might  have  been  due  to  nerve  exhaustion, 
resulting  from  his  strange  and  distorted  thoughts,  the  last 
few  days  of  his  imprisonment.  Lamantia  had  stabbed 
himself  many  times  with  the  small  knife,  which  he  obtained 
from  some  mysterious  source.  Just  how  many  times  it 
was  never  ascertained,  but  the  undertaker  who  later  pre¬ 
pared  the  body  for  burial  said  that  there  were  twenty- 
seven  wounds.  The  man  stabbed  himself  while  lying  on 
the  floor,  and  after  the  old  Roman  fashion  he  several  times 
fell  upon  the  blade,  until  the  narrow  strip  of  steel  was 
“notched  and  dull”  like  the  headsman’s  axe;  in  the  old 
English  song.  'While  he  was  about  his  bloody  work, 
Bocchio  stood  in  the  cell  and  stared  as  though  fascinated 
by  the  flow  of  blood. 

Lamantia  was  a  bloody  sight  as  they  carried  him  up 
the  gallows  stairs.  The  entire  left  side  of  his  fancy  striped 
shirt  was  heavily  blotched  in  a  deep  crimson,  and  red 
bubbles  rose  and  broke,  as  the  wounded,  laboring  heart 
exerted  its  last  energy.  Bocchio  staggered  up  the  steps 
like  one  in  the  spell  of  a  terrible  dream.  Deputy  Johnson 
supported  him  on  one  side,  and  Father  Munichia  on  the 
other,  and  all  the  while  the  priest  whispered  words  of  re¬ 
ligious  cheer  into  the  deaf  ears. 

The  bloody  man  was  placed  on  a  rough  wooden  chair 
set  on  the  drop  lately  occupied  by  Deamore.  His  hands 
were  manacled  behind  him,  and  he  slumped  forward  with 
his  chin  on  his  chest  and  his  legs  widely  extended.  Bocchio 
with  a  vacant  stare  in  his  eyes,  a  stare  of  horror,  and 
hanging  jaw  stood  on  the  trap,  his  knees  bending  and  his 
body  swaying,  and  Father  Munichia  again  had  to  support 
him. 

The  hangman  came,  quickly  drew  Lamantia’s  legs 
together  and  deftly  roped  them.  As  he  did  so,  Lamantia 
feebly  stirred,  opened  his  eyes,  and  looked  toward  Bocchio. 
It  was  like  a  sad  farewell,  for  the  eyelids  closed  again, 
and  the  senseless  head  sunk  forward  on  the  chest.  La- 


25 


mantia  was  hooded  and  set  for  the  drop  and  the  deathsman 
turned  his  loathsome  attention  to  Bocchio. 

It  was  a  startling  scene,  a  scene  touched  with  som¬ 
berness  and  terror,  and  even  those  men  on  the  gallows  who 
had  been  hardened  by  contact  with  the  School  of  Criminal 
Experience  were  glad  that  the  executioner  was  hurried  in 
his  actions. 

“My  God,  hurry,  let’s  get  it  over,”  whispered  one 
of  the  deputies  to  the  hangman,  and  the  masked  man  took 
only  a  few  seconds  to  truss,  noose  and  hoodwink  the  dan¬ 
gerously  swaying  Bocchio.  Then  the  cleaver  guided  by  an 
unerring  hand,  gleamed  in  the  sun,  the  rope  parted  and 
traps  opened  with  a  loud  crash. 

The  bodies  shot  to  quick  death;  like  the  first  two 
neither  man  moved,  and  the  end  must  have  been  as  painless 
as  it  was  instantaneous.  Lamantia’s  pulse  stopped  in  four 
minutes,  and  in  thirteen  minutes,  Dr.  McClendon’s  stetho¬ 
scope  could  find  no  heart  beat  in  Bocchio. 

“They  come  for  us  again,  now  there  will  be  no  wait,” 
said  Giglio,  when  the  grating  )of  the  key  sounded  in  the 
lock,  and  the  heavy  steel  door  of  the  corridor  slowly  swung 
open.  Down  in  the  yard  under  the  scaffold,  Lamantia’s 
bloody  corpse  lay  close  to  Bocchio’s.  The  undertakers  were 
hurrying  them  into  a  little  improvised  dead  house,  ad¬ 
joining  the  executioner’s  cell  In  the  prison. 

Out  came  the  cowled,  slinking  figure  from  the  narrow 
door,  the  deathsman  ran  up  the  scaffold  stairs,  superin¬ 
tended  the  setting  of  the  traps,  and  went  to  work  with 
rapidly  moving  fingers  to  make  a  third  pair  of  nooses. 
“All  ready,  cap,”  said  Joe,  the  Neck  Breaker,  to  Captain 
Rennyson,  and  the  Captain  signalled  to  the  deputy  on  the 
gallows  stairs. 

Giglio  and  Rini  felt  the  summons  before  they  heard 
it,  for  Giglio  threw  away  a  half-smoked  cigar,  and  ner¬ 
vously  smoothed  his  sleek  hair,  brushed  back  from  the 
forehead,  and  Rini  muttered,  “it’s  all  ended  now.”  The 
men  submitted  to  having  their  hands  manacled  behind  their 
backs  with  never  a  tremor,  and  Rini  shook  hands  with  sev¬ 
eral  deputies,  awkwrardly  turning  his  arms  to  give  the  fare¬ 
well  clasp. 

Giglio  a  few  minutes  before  had  been  humming  a  popu¬ 
lar  song,  and  the  refrain  still  seemed  to  run  in  his  mind, 
as  he  pursed  his  lips  to  wiiistle,  but  the  priests  entered 


26 


the  corridor  then,  and  the  men  endeavored  to  turn  their 
thoughts  heavenward.  Through  the  corridor,  down  the 
stairs  and  into  the  yard  moved  the  gloomy  procession, 
with  Giglio  and  Father  Munichia  in  the  lead,  and  Rini  and 
Father  Martinez  close  behind.  As  they  ascended  the  steps 
to  the  gallows,  Giglio,  unable  to  contain  himself,  broke  forth 
in  resentful  words.  “They’ve  butchered  four  of  us,”  he 
said  in  loud,  even  tones,  “and  now  they  are  going  to  butcher 
two  more;  they’ll  be  satisfied  in  five  minutes,  when  we  are 
dead.” 

“That’s  right  Joe,  five  innocent  men,”  spoke  Rini; 
“we  go  innocent,  God  knows  we  do.”  The  platform  was 
now  reached  and  Giglio  took  his  place  on  the  west  drop 
where  Leona  and  Bocchio  had  died,  and  Rini  stood  firmly 
on  the  east  drop,  where  a  splash  of  blood  drying  in  the 
sun,  was  a  gruesome  reminder  of  Lamantia’s  pain  and 
death. 

“Governor  Parker  ought  to  get  himself  six  more  Ital¬ 
ians,”  cried  Giglio  waiting  for  the  hangman;  “he  got 
us  six  and  he  had  eleven  before,  that  makes  seventeen ;  he 
ought  to  get  some  more.” 

The  deathsman  had  come  and  was  tying  Rini’s  legs. 
Rini  looked  boldly  toward  the  sky  and  seemed  to  watch 
for  a  moment  the  movements  of  an  airship  circling  over 
the  jail. 

“Joe,”  said  Dr.  McClendon,  who  stood  close  to  the  trap, 
“you’re  going  to  die  now,  tell  us  who  was  the  seventh 
man;  who  did  the  killing?” 

“Listen,”  answered  Rini,  “that  man  who  went  before 
us,  Roy  Leona,  he  told  who  did  the  shooting,  didn’t  he?  We 
are  innocent  of  murder,  we  are;  Leona  told  you.” 

Both  Fred.  Beckler  of  the  New  Orleans  force  and 
Deputy  Johnson  urged  Rini  to  confess.  “Listen,”  said  the 
dying  man;  “I’m  straight,  I  am,  every  bone  in  my  body’s 
as  straight  as  a  candle;  I’m  straight,  I’m  honest;  Leona 
told  you  and  he  paid  for  it  and  so  are  we  paying  for  it  but 
we  are  innocent.” 

Just  then,  the  deathsman,  having  bound  Rini’s  legs, 
and  placed  the  noose  about  his  I  neck,  reached  up  to  slip 
on  the  black  cap.  Rini  drew  aside  angrily  and  cried: 
“Wait  a  minute,  you,  can’t  you  see  I’m  talking?”  The  exe¬ 
cutioner  dropped  the  black  cap  and  waited. 

“Maybe  we  were  guilty  of  attempt  murder — ”  Rini  then 

27 


declared,  but  before  he  could  proceed,  Giglio  from  the  other 
trap  interrupted  him: 

“Not  attempt  murder,  Joe,  attempt  robbery — ”  was 
Giglio’s  interruption. 

“That’s  right,  attempt  robbery,  not  attempt  murder,” 
Rini  corrected  himself;  “God  knows  we  are  innocent  of 
murder.” 

“Who  was  the  seventh  man  who  put  the  light  out  in 
the  bank?”  questioned  Dr.  McClendon,  while  the  deaths- 
man,  having  hooded  Rini  was  binding  and  noosing  Giglio. 

“Leona  told  you  the  truth”,  came  in  muffled  tones 
from  under  the  black  cap ;  “I’ll  tell  you  nothing.” 

Giglio  seemed  angry  and  resentful,  and  once  uttered 
the  words,  “Oh  bother  all.”  But  Father  Munichia  called 
on  him  to  remember  he  was  to  face  his  God,  and  the  young 
Italian,  as  the  cap  was  drawn  down,  bowed  his  head  in 
contrition  and  answered,  “That’s  right,  Father,  I  forgive 
them  all.” 

Then  the  final  tragedy.  “Good-bye  Joe,”  from  under 
Giglio’s  hood,  and  an  answering  good-bye  Joe  from  under 
Rini’s  hood.  The  hangman  crouched  like  an  ugly  poison 
spider  between  the  two,  raised  his  cleaver,  and  “Crash”  went 
the  double  traps.  The  men  fell  straight  through  the  gaping 
jaws  of  the  gallows  and  under  the  platform  the  bodies  were 
stayed  in  their  flight  with  a  sickening  jerk.  Rini  hung 
motionless,  but  Giglio  spun  twice  on  the  rope,  and  vented 
a  deep  and  long  sustained  groan,  as  his  chest  heaved  and 
his  shoulders  and  arms  were  drawn  up  in  an  ugly  move¬ 
ment. 

Giglio  groaned  again,  feebly  this  time,  and  there  was 
a  wheezing  gurgle  in  his  throat  as  he  gasped  for  breath. 
His  chest  rose  and  fell  rapidly,  and  his  wrists  twisted  and 
turned  as  though  trying  to  free  themselves  of  the  manacles, 
but  soon  the  body  seemed  to  stretch  downward,  and  then 
it  hung  as  motionless  as  Rini’s.  Although  Giglio  showed 
evidence  of  strangulation,  and  Rini’s  neck  bone  was  shat¬ 
tered  by  the  drop,  Giglio’s  pulse  stopped  one  minute  be¬ 
fore  Rini’s.  The  men  were  pronounced  dead  in  less  than 
fifteen  minutes.  Each  pair,  however,  remained  suspended 
for  twenty-one  minutes,  formal  gallows  hanging  time. 

And  all  the  while  the  Sun  looked  down  from  a  cloud¬ 
less  sky,  bathing  the  scaffold  in  light,  and  lining  Death’s 
Sable  Mantle  with  gold. 


28 


In  the  baggage  car  on  the  evening  train  going  to  New 
Orleans  were  six  coffins,  and  each  coffin  contained  the 
corpse  of  a  hanged  man.  Deamore’s  neck  was  so  swollen 
and  distorted,  that  the  undertakers  used  more  than  a  hun¬ 
dred  pounds  of  ice  to  reduce  the  ugly  folds  of  discolored 
flesh.  The  rope  had  mangled  and  gashed  Deamore’s  neck, 
and  had  the  drop  been  greater,  the  man’s  head  might  have 
been  torn  from  his  shoulders. 

Lamantia,  Leona  and  Giglio  were  buried  in  New  York; 
Rini  found  a  resting  place  in  a  Chicago  cemetery  close  to 
his  mother,  and  Bocchio  and  Deamore  occupy  their  little 
bit  of  God’s  Acre  in  a  New  Orleans  grave  yard. 

The  legal  witnesses  to  the  hanging  were  Dr.  McClen¬ 
don,  J.  P.  Westhope,  R.  L.  Hillburn,  Dr.  Edward  McGehee, 
and  Allen  Dowling  and  George  Vandervoort,  the  last  two, 
well  known  New  Orleans  newspapermen.  Among  the 
deputies  from  the  New  Orleans  prison  who  went  to  Amite 
for  the  execution  were  Bob  Kennedy,  J.  Wicks,  Bill  Lyons, 
Paul  Caze,  R.  Cummings,  Bill  Bentley  and  A.  Kippers.  Dr. 
McClendon  took  the  pulse  and  heart  beats  of  the  men  after 
they  had  dropped.  Assisting  him  in  this  formality  were 
Dr.  A.  B.  Pitkin,  of  New  Orleans;  Dr.  McGehee,  of  Amite 
and  Dr.  Hyde  of  Roseland.  Another  prominent  Tan¬ 
gipahoa  Parish  physician  in  the  prison  during  the  day  was 
Dr.  Eugene  Robards,  of  Independence.  Rene  Calmes, 
brother  of  the  murdered  man,  whose  coolness  three  years 
ago,  helped  save  the  prisoners  from  mob  violence,  wit¬ 
nessed  the  executions,  but  his  manner  showed  only  a  spirit 
of  kindliness  and  forgiveness  for  the  unfortunate  six. 

During  their  long  confinement  in  the  New  Orleans 
Prison,  the  men  found  spiritual  help  and  consolation  from 
the  faithful  ministration  of  Father  Raymond  Carra,  of  St. 
Patrick’s  Church.  William  Warrington,  of  the  Warrington 
House,  showed  the  men  friendly  attention,  and  was  active 
in  securing  the  funds  to  bury  the  destitute  Bocchio. 

The  Curtain  has  fallen  on  the  last  Scene  of  this  Great 
Tragedy,  and  the  Stage  of  the  Theatre  of  Life  will  long 
reek  with  the  blood  and  horror  of  the  terrific  action. 


29 


# 


1 

L99146 

DATE 

ISSUED  TO 

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Vol.21 

mi  9  A‘M - 


-otsl.  £,i 


